Mr Cellophane
by bluekrishna
Summary: Conrad dies at the end.


As the gun swung up, he didn't hesitate.

In a lifetime of hesitation and crippling doubt, for once he found himself not frozen in the face of impending calamity. It opened before him like a shining path. He leaped to meet it. Purpose. His own. He finally found it. The muzzle flare blinded him. Pain exploded in his chest where his heart used to pump unimpeded by mass accelerated bits of iron. He felt joy then that, while the rest of his disappointing life might have been spent wandering, trying to find a way to matter, in this at least, he found himself exactly where he was needed. It felt like coming home.

As promised, his life flashed before his eyes.

One of eight kids living in a tiny apartment in the metroplex once known as Jersey, he faded into the background of screaming squalor. Too many mouths, not enough food, let alone attention. His parents were only vague memories of impersonal reprimands, he couldn't even remember their faces any more.

That boy dreamed of being noticed, and as soon as he could, Conrad escaped Earth. Only to find the galaxy at large didn't have time for him either. He ran, from menial jobs where he was just part of the scenery. He ran from colleges that educated him, then threatened to shuffle him into a dusty drawer with all those other mediocre 'Ph.D.s'. Where he would end up, what, writing scientific papers for the rest of his life? That maybe half a dozen people _might_ read?

He found that his name suddenly acquired so many letters and abbreviations at the end of it that that's all anyone ever saw any more. His actual name became merely a prefix. All his doctorates eclipsed what should have been his life. A life of consequence.

Conrad remembered the day that changed. He'd been standing on the Citadel, trying to figure out if it was worth it to jump out into the airlane traffic, if anyone'd even notice that the thumping noise on their fenders and bumpers used to be a human being.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw black and red. Of course it would magnetize his attention. Very little about Commander Shepard wasn't being noticed these days. They said the commander was born on Earth, like him. A great soldier and now there were whispers about him becoming a Spectre as well. Beyond that, Conrad saw charisma, confidence. How he'd burned with envy.

How unfair that two men with such similar backgrounds could have ended up with such different lives.

Conrad's heart skipped a beat when those piercingly blue eyes flicked to him. Was he actually seen? Unable to help himself, he'd waved the commander over and instead of marching on past as Conrad expected, Commander Shepard stopped. Conrad didn't deny the flood of warmth that filled him, the spark of love deep in his heart for the one man who'd pause to notice a phantom.

He took to hanging around the same spot for days after. And Commander Shepard, though the commander must be busy chasing down rogue Spectres, stopped several times to speak to him. Here was a road that might lead to some kind of fulfilling existence. Something meaningful. He did his best not to notice the pity, the sarcasm. His own failings led him to nearly screw it all up more than once. He was a man drowning, but his flailing and fumbling hadn't pushed Shepard away, for which Conrad felt supremely grateful.

Such was the tenor of his dealings with Commander Shepard over the years. Conrad would try and he would fail, and Shepard would show up to rescue him from his own stupidity. During the bleaker moments, Conrad often wondered if he didn't subconsciously fuck things up on purpose just so Shepard would intervene. What a sad and worthless thing he was...undeserving of the attention Shepard squandered on him.

Then the Reapers came, Conrad was older and just a bit wiser and he didn't envy Shepard any more. More horrors than he could conceive of were happening out there in the cosmos. He'd seen terrible things. The worst was when people turned on each other instead of standing together to face annihilation. He'd wished for Shepard's charisma more than once. Or that there was more than one Shepard in the galaxy.

That only one man was so intrinsically tied to all their fates was frightening. Conrad was so frightened of what tomorrow could bring should Shepard fall. And that, he realized, that was what lead him here.

His back felt sticky and wet. He knew that he was bleeding out. A face, kind enough to show sorrow at his passing, hovered over him. With an insight born of his imminent demise, Conrad saw fear in Shepard's blue gaze. Way back in there, Conrad saw planets exploding, millions dying, this man's friends and loved ones suffering horribly. He saw that he was lumped in that category, too. Because he'd been brave enough to reach out and speak to the mighty, who were just as scared and alone on the summit as Conrad had been on the foothills. He was more than an annoyance. He'd been a face that grounded the hero, that kept him connected to reality. He_ mattered._

Conrad felt tears gather at the corner of his eyes and wanted to say, _Thank you. Thank God for you. And I'm so sorry for leaving you as so many have to face this horror alone._

Instead, he found the air to breathe, "Shepard...Shepard, did I...help?"

A fragile smile, eyes misty with held back emotion, his_ friend_ said, "Yeah, Conrad...you helped."

Conrad sighed, and felt content. Darkness washed over him. Once again, he leaped, into the blessed void with joy.

* * *

A/N: Written for Rev's July writing contest. Hope you liked it and here's a thank you to everyone who plays RT on the Aria's Afterlife Forum. You've shown me wonders, guys. Really.


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